It’s all about the words. It always was.
Only I didn’t know it at the time.
I wandered around for most of my life with a pen and a piece or two of paper. There was a battered journal that accompanied me across Ireland. I wrote my way across the Soviet Union. I have always turned to writing in the night, those small hours between midnight and dawn that seem the darkest. Before I was aware of my mental health issues I turned to writing as a way to capture my demons. The slender thread of ink across a page has provided a lifeline more than once.
Guest Blogger for the CPTSD Foundation –
The diagnosis of Complex PTSD
CPTSD- the Thief of Time (pending)
Write for Healing: The Midnight Hour
It does not work like that. (editorial)
Conscript (working-title, 1st draft)
Envoy (working-title, 1st draft)